


Tales of Naharai and a Treatise on Hope

by alastairfontaine



Category: An Immortal Dance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 15:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10221836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alastairfontaine/pseuds/alastairfontaine
Summary: These are a couple of stories about Naharai, an immortal in my novel 'An Immortal Dance'. Also included is a short poem. Enjoy!facebook.com/animmortaldance





	

**The End of Khwarezm**

A cloud of red dust followed the young scout as he rushed towards the mounted hordes of Chinggis Khan. He wore the same outfit that his people had worn since time immemorial- a long, heavy coat made from tough animal hide with a pointy fur hat. A curved, steel sabre hung from a simple leather belt while a full quiver was slung across his back. He held a wooden composite bow in one hand, using the other to steer a small horse, almost a pony, born of the same, cold steppe as he. This was the warrior that had conquered the world.  

 

On this day, he rode across hot, rocky terrain, galloping at full speed to give his commanders excellent news. At last, they had caught up to Jalal ad-Din, the last shah of Khwarezm. He led the battered remnants of a once glorious army, a mere fraction of what they had been before they had incurred the wrath of the khan of khans. They had hounded him across his own lands, reducing his cities to rubble and driving his subjects before them in a storm of trampling hooves and flying metal. Now he waited for them, preparing for a final stand, trapped between the mountains and the rough, turquoise waters of the Indus river.

 

The scout passed swiftly through the assembled ranks of the Mongol force, taking a moment to dismount and disarm before the fierce gaze of the armoured kheshig, the khan’s elite guard. At last, he reached the man who had given his people a future. He was a powerfully built man in his middle age, sporting an unruly mane of greying black hair with a large beard and penetrating, dark eyes. His hands and face bore the marks of a rough life on the saddle. The marks of a warrior. The khan of khans was, above all, a Mongol warrior like those he led. All the wealth and lands that he had acquired throughout the years had never changed that.

 

He was surrounded by his generals, hardened men who had ridden with him on campaign after campaign from the Jin capital of Zhongdu to the shimmering gates of Samarkand. One in particular was favoured above all. Noyan Subutai, the greatest tactician the world had ever seen, a leader of men equal to Chinggis himself. Like his master, he wore a shining suit of lamellar plates, marking him as one of the Mongol elite. Subutai had an unusual face. Amber eyes hosted a vicious spark in startling contrast to the beautiful countenance of an olive-skinned boy. Still, his mind had led the Mongols to crushing victories against impossible odds. Alone, he was a ferocious fighter. It was said that armed only with a sabre, he could easily hold his own against a hundred trained soldiers, even Mongols.

 

“Khan of khans, my noyans, the army of Khwarezm is encamped but a few days’ march from here. They seem to be preparing for battle,” the scout declared.

 

“Numbers?” asked Subutai.

 

“Fifty thousand at most, noyan. They are battered and broken, no match for us.”

 

“What is your name, soldier?”

 

“Erke, noyan.”

 

“Take note, young Erke. They may be tired and worn, but they have a leader and more importantly, a faith. The Khwarezmid khan leads them in the name of their God, and they will fight to the last gasp in his defence. Never underestimate such men. They will extract a heavy price for his head if we are not careful.”

 

“Forgive me, noyan,” the warrior bowed his head in shame.

 

“You have done well in your duty,” Subutai remarked, nodding, unwilling to leave the young man feeling totally humiliated in front of Chinggis, “Have some airag and prepare yourself for the fight ahead.”

 

“Thank you, noyan,” Erke said, giving the assembled nobility a curt bow and rapidly walking away. He was disappointed that the khan of khans had not even acknowledged him and berated himself for the foolishness that had earned him a rebuke from Subutai. However, he could not help but feel relieved at being away from those piercing, amber eyes. There was something unnatural about that man. Erke could not help but shudder at the thought of such a man on the other side of the battlefield.  

 

***

 

Naharai rode at the head of the Mongol lines, alongside Chinggis. Subutai, they called him. He had borne many names. Enkidu. Pausanias. Huneric. Godfrey. Now, he was Subutai, first amongst the commanders of the armies of Mongolia. The Mongols fascinated him. They were a people bred to war, taught from childhood to be excellent riders and bowmen. They were possessed of an incredible endurance and an iron will. At times, Naharai wondered if Chinggis was not one of his siblings in disguise. The man had raised himself from a tribal outcast in the harsh Mongolian steppe to a mighty emperor in a matter of a few years. No, he was but a mortal man, though certainly worthy of immortality. By his side, Naharai was certain that he would finally eclipse his brother Asriel’s work at the side of Alexander of Macedon. Often, he fantasized about the day when he would once more lead an army to sack Asriel’s beloved Rome.

 

For now, however, he had to focus on obliterating the last vestige of the arrogant fools who had thought they could defeat Chinggis Khan. In the distance, he could see their vast, glittering ranks, relics of an empire that he had swept away. They were dwarfed by the massive Mongol horde. Brave men. They were preparing to die with Khwarezm. Naharai would happily oblige them.

 

“My khan, I have sent scouts to explore the land. They will return by the end of the day. I would encourage you to wait until tomorrow to minimize our losses,” he said, turning to face Chinggis.

 

“Subutai, we outnumber them by the thousands. I will not give a single one of them time to escape. Especially not that royal brat,” the Mongol chief replied.

 

“My khan, these men fully expect to die. Your army will suffer greatly if we rush this.”

 

“I would sooner lose a thousand men than let Jalal ad-Din leave this place alive. I suspect that he will not cease to be a thorn in our side until his death. Men like him are very dangerous Subutai.”

 

“You are right, my khan, but I fear you will lose more than a thousand men.”

 

“I want his head by tomorrow. Bring it to me.”

 

Naharai stared into the khan’s eyes, black pools daring him to argue. They stood there in silence for a few moments. Naharai knew that even Chinggis could not meet his amber eyes for long. Yet it was Naharai who looked away first, bowing his head and slowly turning his horse to address the officers. He did not dare undermine Chinggis in front of his soldiers.

 

“Spread the word, I want every man ready within the hour. I would suggest to anyone who wishes to survive this massacre keep his wits about him and fight with caution.”

 

“Yes, noyan,” came their reply. Then, they turned to give orders to their own subordinates. Soon, a great shout came up from amongst the warriors. At the edge of his vision, Naharai saw Chinggis’ lips curl into a wicked smile.

 

***

 

“Khan of khans, they are battering our centre! We must do something!” a panicked voice shouted above the clamour of dying men and clashing steel.

 

“Send more men to the front, quickly!” Chinggis replied. Night had fallen and the battle raged on. As the men of Khwarezm died, they were slaughtering Mongols in their hundreds. At this rate, by the time the last soldier of Khwarezm lay dead on the rocky ground, the blood of half the Mongol army would be flowing into the Indus.

 

“Noyan!” a scout called to Naharai, running towards where the officers stood. “Noyan, we have found a path around the mountain. If we move quickly, we can crush the enemy.”

 

Naharai shot an angry glance at Chinggis, then gestured to one of his commanders, “Take ten thousand and follow this warrior. It is time to end this.”

 

“With pleasure, noyan. Khan of khans,” the veteran officer bowed and ran to his horse, quickly mounting and galloping after the scout, shouting orders as he went.   

 

Watching them go, Naharai could not help but to remark, “How many Mongol mothers will weep for their sons on your account, my khan of khans?”

 

“They bleed bravely for their nation, a mother could ask for no greater honour,” the khan stubbornly replied.

 

“Oh, let up Temüjin. You made a mistake, just own up, at least to yourself. The blood of your people is on your hands. You could have waited but a day and swatted Khwarezm like a fly. Instead, Khwarezm met its end in glory.”

 

The khan’s face reddened with rage, “Subutai, come. Jebe, take command.” The officers looked at each other solemnly, sensing the tension between the khan and his favourite noyan.

 

“Your will, my khan of khans,” Jebe replied as the pair walked stiffly into the khan’s ger.

 

 “How dare you speak to me in such a fashion Subutai? My name is Chinggis Khan, khan of khans and I am your master. I shall ha-”

 

The fury in the khan’s face subsided, twisting into a mask of horror as an extraordinary force grabbed him by the beard and pulled him to the ground. He reached for his sabre, amazed to find it missing.

 

“Looking for this, my khan?” a suddenly cruel voice said, throwing the ancient blade across the fur-covered floor of the ger. Its wolf’s head hilt turned to face Chinggis as if in mockery for his weakness.

 

“What is this, Subutai?” the Mongol growled.

 

“I am Naharai, you mortal fool. It seems that we have both adopted new names.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Temüjin Borjigin, I have been in this world since long before you came kicking and screaming from your mother Hoelun’s womb. I am stronger than a hundred men and faster than an arrow’s flight. I have learned the lessons of two thousand grim battles and will surely fight thousands more long after you are naught but ash.”

 

“It is not possible. You are a liar. Release me, Subutai. Release me and your death will be quick.”

 

“Call me a liar again, and I shall break your neck and dissapear into the night. I would be interested to see where your empire goes without either of us. I wonder who would replace you? Your infant sons? Temüjin, what if I told you that I happened to be passing by when Behter died?”

 

“You li-” Chinggis stopped himself as he began to feel pressure on his neck, “Tell me, how did my brother die?”

 

“With an arrow through his neck, shot from the bushes by his younger brother over a marmot.”

 

“How is it possible?” Chinggis asked, astounded. “To have witnessed it you would have to be far older than your face suggests. None but my mother and brothers know what happened on that day. Tell me, were you sent by the sky father to aid us?”

 

“No, Temüjin. I am with you out of love for you and your people. However, I will not tolerate disrespect. I am loyal to you as long as you remain a capable ruler and do not mistreat me. Are we understood?”

 

“I understand. Please forgive my arrogance, I thought you but a mere soldier.”

 

Naharai released the khan and waited as the Mongol took a moment to rub his sore neck.

 

“There is nothing to forgive, mortal. When we leave the felt walls of this ger, I am Subutai and you are Chinggis. You will tell no one my secret.”

 

The two men shared an understanding gaze as the khan offered his arm to the immortal. Naharai grabbed it for a brief moment in a firm clasp, before releasing it as the two of them walked wordlessly out of the ger to watch the sun come up as the last hope of a dying empire was finally crushed.

 

***

 

“My khan, the enemy has been utterly defeated. They have been massacred to a man. Our warriors are looting the dead,” Naharai announced as the sun revealed the grisly result of the night’s butchery.

 

“What of Jalal ad-Din?” Chinggis asked.

 

“I do not know. He is likely amongst the fallen.”

 

“My lord, may I speak?” a young scout piped in. Erke, Naharai recalled.

 

“What is it?” Chinggis nodded.

 

“I believe I saw the khan of Khwarezm towards the end of the battle. As I slew one of his soldiers, I turned my head to look to the river. There, I saw a man surrounded by a ring of enemy soldiers. I watched as he removed his golden armour and threw it into the river, keeping only a jewelled sabre in his belt. Then, he spoke a few words to them before mounting his horse and riding it straight into the water. I watched as time after time, he and his steed defied the river’s will,” Erke hesitated for a moment, looking down briefly before looking up at Chinggis, “My khan… he made it to the other side.”

 

  **The Land of the Rising Sun  
**

Naharai stood on the grassy plain before the hill called Shiroyama. The imperial army had spent hours pounding it with thunderous volleys of cannon fire. Occasionally, they were rewarded by screams of anguish and the sight of armoured figures scurrying to get out of the projectile’s vicious path. Most of the time though, the lead balls wedged themselves into the hillside or whirred far above the enemy army. He turned away in annoyance. In simpler times, the two armies would simply have charged at each other, with the mightiest warriors taking the victory. However, the imperial army would be annihilated in any direct assault on the hill. The rebels had been trained from birth in _bushido,_ the way of the warrior. They did not fear pain, nor would they flee their coming death. They were samurai, born for battle.

 

However, such men were hard to come by. In this new era, they were out of date. A single shot from a rifleman could wipe away years of training. No armour or technique could defend against the fearsome weapons of the West. He had seen how armies of farmers, armed with flintlock muskets, had massacred the mounted nobility of Europe. Now change had come to the land of the rising sun and Naharai intended to be a part of it. An army of gun-wielding peasants, instilled with the spirit of _bushido_ , if not the samurai’s skill at arms, could conquer the world.

 

“Aritomo-sama! We are running low on ammunition for the cannons. Shall we order an assault?” a young officer asked.

 

“No, not yet. Keep up the barrage, do not let them sleep. We want them tired tomorrow, unable to lift their swords,” Naharai said, smiling. If only it were that easy.

 

“Your will, Aritomo-sama,” the officer bowed, turning away to observe the continuing barrage.

 

Naharai turned to his chief officer, Nakamura. Though he had been raised a samurai, he was a man given to shameful excess. Naharai felt only contempt for the man. Unfortunately, he had so far been unable to get rid of him. Not only was he a favourite of the Westerners who had come to train and equip his army, but he was also loved dearly by the Meiji brat. Not even Yamagata Aritomo could publicly defy the emperor. Now Naharai was of a mind to get rid of two birds with one stone.

 

“Nakamura-san?” he called.

 

“Yes?” came the reply in an annoyingly indulgent tone. The arrogant fool had not even bothered to address him properly.

 

“My friend, I would like you to perform a duty for me. Singlehandedly, you could win us the battle.”

 

“Oh?” the fat man raised an eyebrow.

 

“I would li-” Naharai began.

 

“I will most certainly not lead the first assault if that is what you had in mind. I’m an officer, not cannon fodder, silly,” Nakamura scoffed.

 

“They’ve lost all of their gu-”

 

“Well I don’t fancy getting cut open. I’m afraid my swordplay is quite poor.”

 

“Ah. I see,” Naharai looked at him coldly, “Well, I was not going to ask you to lead an assault. I was actua-”

 

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Why work me up for nothing? Come now, Yamagata, let’s go have ourselves a meal. I really cannot stand much more of these cannons. Can you get them to stop? Even for a little while?”

 

“I understand your concerns, Nakamura-san. However, I was just going to ask you to put on a little display that could win you eternal glory and the gratitude of the emperor.”

 

“Well, I am an actor at heart! Do you need me to inspire the men? I’m truly glad you asked.”

 

Naharai shook his head, slowly. He was truly dumbstruck. Was Nakamura delusional? He could not inspire a man, let alone an army! At last, Naharai managed to speak, “No, my friend. That would be such a waste of your talents. I want you to lure the samurai out of the hill so that we may end this once and for all.”

 

“How would I do that? They are brave, but not fools.”

 

“That they are, but I will give you a puppet, covered by a sheet. You will burn it and only then remove the sheet. Upon seeing it, they will come at us, enraged, and we will pick them off easily on open ground.”

 

A glimmer of guile appeared in Nakamura’s eyes. Burning a puppet seemed easy enough in return for the glory that he would gain for defeating hundreds of samurai. He nodded eagerly, “Where’s the puppet?”

 

***

 

Yamagata had snuck him out of the camp early in the morning. Now, Nakamura stood in the middle of the plain that lay before Shiroyama. He was confident that he was close enough to friendly lines to escape if the need arose, and equally importantly, far out of bow-shot. He held the puppet in both hands. It was a grotesquely large thing wrapped in a white sheet and impaled on a long stake. He wondered what could possibly offend the samurai enough to send them on a suicidal frenzy, but he did not care enough to remove the sheet before the time came to do so. If he did, he would have to put it back on afterwards and that would be such a hassle.

 

He had waited for hours until the two armies had begun to wake and he was sure that the rebels would be able to see the mannequin. Now, he drove the stake deep into the ground and lit a match. Quickly, he set the bottom of the puppet aflame and removed the sheet as he had been instructed. Almost immediately, a great roar came up from the hilltop. Nakamura smiled smugly. Yamagata had been right after all. He turned to run to safety as he saw a swarm of angry figures begin to rush down Shiroyama, only to realize that the imperial soldiers were also crying out in outrage. Confusion turned to sheer horror as he looked up at the burning puppet. It was a crude effigy of the emperor. What had that fool Yamagata done?

 

Now Nakamura pelted down the plain in terror, cursing his superior. If they caught him, the rebel samurai would crush him to a pulp, and rightly so! He arrived at the assembled lines of the imperial army, only to be faced with a row of bayonets, all pointed at him. Behind them, furious faces glared at him in silence.

 

“Let me through, you idiots!” Nakamura barked, looking over his shoulder at the ever-decreasing gap between him and the seething mass of the rebel army. The bayonets remained in place.

 

“Please, let me through. Let me through, I beg of you. Don’t do this. I am a samurai! Let me through, in the name of the emperor,” the fat man pleaded with them, a pathetic figure. The rebels were almost half-way down the plain.

 

“Don’t do this. Please. I didn’t know. It wasn’t my fault,” Nakamura sobbed, “Plea-”

 

A single shot rang out across the battlefield. Nakamura went quiet and his mouth opened in a final ‘o’ before he fell, face down. They had been so focused on Nakamura that no one saw who had done the deed. There was no time to speculate either, for the samurai were almost upon them.

 

Naharai shouted, “Infantry, take position and prepare to fire. Artillery, bring out the American gun!”

 

The gun in question consisted of a cylinder containing six, long barrels and mounted on wheels. On the side, there was a crank. When one turned the crank, the gun would rain a devastating hail of bullets on any advancing enemy force, mercilessly tearing through many men before they came even close to its position.

 

Naharai smiled sadly as he saw the last true samurai charge across that field, _katana_ raised, shouting their battle cries like the apes that had once attacked his people under a primeval glade. Reluctantly, he nodded to his officers.

 

“That is _bushido_. Remember those men. Let it end quickly.”

 

Then, he looked fixedly ahead, determined to honour their deaths with his full attention. If anyone had been looking, they might have seen a single tear roll down his olive cheek. 

 

***

 

 _Murin-an_. It was just as beautiful as he had envisioned it, years before. Naharai stood on a little stone bridge crossing the stream that flowed gently through his estate. Around him, as far as the eye could see, myriad trees and bushes dotted the landscape. It was a place so serene, so peaceful that it was hard to believe that it was surrounded by the city of Kyoto. Maple trees, weeping willows and of course, cherry trees. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom today, a symbol of the Japanese people. Despite himself, Naharai loved this beautiful garden. He, who had spent so many eons ravaging and burning places such as this, had designed _Murin-an_. More than that, he had fallen in love with his creation.

 

He thought of his beloved brother. When Asriel would conquer vast, untamed lands in the name of empire, he would lead great armies to raze the cities erected by those same empires. Yet he knew that his brother had claimed the victory. Naharai had made the Mongol tribes into a mighty empire. He had reduced countless cities to rubble and slaughtered their inhabitants in the name of the khan. However, they had grown weak. Complacent. So the Chinese had risen, and the Persians, and the Russians, and all those who had for so long borne the Mongol yoke. They had driven the children of Chinggis Khan back into the cold steppe, and now their great empire was long forgotten. The cities that they had destroyed had been rebuilt. They had left very little behind to mark where they had conquered. Asriel’s Rome, however, was still very much alive. Its imperial glory was long gone, but its systems, its values, its styles were all at the root of the Western world. The idea of Rome was still very much alive in the modern era, in Europe and in its former colonies in Africa, Asia and the Americas. Asriel had built something much more than a physical kingdom. What Asriel had built would last far longer than any nation ever would.

 

He thought of his favourite sister. She was a beauty, wild and free. He had not seen her very often throughout the years, but he had heard that she was somewhere in the Americas. Truly, he felt sad for her. He knew how she loved the more primitive populations of the world. It must have been agony to watch them be driven back over the ages by the civilized world, until slowly, they began to disappear. At least, however, she had Asriel. They made a wonderful pair, even if they were complete opposites. Perhaps that was what made their relationship so incredible. Despite their incredible differences, their love always endured. They were the spark in each other’s life, something that Naharai could not help but to envy.

 

At last, he thought of his other siblings. Ashmadu, Nuratum and Iltani, the three who walked the Earth as common folk. They had never achieved anything. They had never created or destroyed. They came to him occasionally, and told them what they had observed in their travels. Honestly though, he had always found them quite dull. Then there were the six that had died on that terrible night so long ago. At the mere memory of that terrible night, he shut his eyes, a pained expression contorting his features. Their gruesome ends had never stopped haunting him. His people had been so weak back then. They had been so innocent. Ever since, they had grown strong, shaping the future of the world at their pleasure. They had nothing to fear from the darkness anymore, it had been driven away long ago by the fires of mortal man.

 

There was a corpse waiting in the house, taken from a nearby graveyard, for when people came looking for the great Prince Yamagata Aritomo, Field Marshall of the Empire of Japan. Quickly, Naharai removed his decorated military uniform. One by one, he threw his medals into the lazy stream. He pulled out his lighter, a novelty of this era. Two flicks, and a little flame appeared. Then, he threw it into the discarded pile of clothing on the stone bridge and watched it burn until nothing but a charred ruin remained. Naharai ran into the forest, naked as he had walked in times before Japan was even a figment of man’s imagination. Naked as he had walked in times before man waged war on man. 

 

**A Treatise on Hope**

 

What lights up those infant eyes?

Not Washington, nor Moscow.

Not Delhi, nor Islamabad.

Toys!

 

What is the colour of those tiny lips?

Not Dark, nor Light.

Not Asian, nor Caucasian.

Pink!

 

What brings out that precious laugh?

Not Vishnu, nor Allah.

Not Karl Marx, nor Adam Smith.

Love!

 

So have you seen a baby’s smile?

What is in a baby’s smile?

It is the promise of a life ahead.

Hope!

 

Is that not worth uniting for?


End file.
